A Wedding To Die For yrm-2 Page 14

  But when I’d polished all this off, I had a bellyache so bad it felt like my bloated gut had broken one of my ribs. And this self-indulgence did not make my phone ring or cure my guilt at being such a bitch to a guy who deserved so much better. So I left another message on Jeff’s cell—this one short and sweet, offering another apology.

  This personal drama had knocked me off track and I knew it. Time to get to work. After I took some Alka-Seltzer, Diva and I headed for the office.

  I got on-line and typed “missing persons” into the search feature in the Dallas Morning News archives. I then chose the dates to narrow my search, typing in 1985-1986. I got eighty-three hits. Wow. Eighty-three people disappeared or were found dead without identification in that one year alone. Apparently nameless victims were dumped at least once a week in Dallas. Scary. But right now I was more interested in missing persons who might not be dead, so when I came across an article about B&B Stainless Supply while searching for missing persons—the company the Beadford brothers once ran in Dallas—my already unhappy tummy tightened. What the hell?

  I was riveted to the article with unblinking attention. This connection was no coincidence. It couldn’t be. I printed out the article and reread it, then sat back in my chair, rubbing between my brow with thumb and index finger. A woman named Laura Montgomery, who had worked for B&B as an accountant, was indicted for fraud, and it was this fraud that led to the company’s descent into bankruptcy. But that wasn’t what made my heart pound and my mouth go dry. Two days before trial, Laura Montgomery disappeared. And not long after that a woman named Blythe Donnelly buys a house with cash in Jamaica—a woman who happened to be an accountant with a six-figure Grand Cayman bank account. That woman then shows up at Megan’s wedding twenty years later, wearing winter clothes right off the rack—clothes she would not need in Jamaica. Surely she came to see her daughter get married—a daughter who had grown up in the house of the same man Laura Montgomery betrayed. How the hell did that happen? This was crazy and complicated and made me feel like someone had just piled rocks on my shoulders.

  My stomach was churning by now, the nausea an irritating distraction. I had to find out more. Trying to ignore the gurgling in my gut, I got back to work, this time plugging Laura Montgomery’s name into the newspaper’s archive search engine. Plenty of hits turned up. She’d been twenty-four when she skipped bail, and one article speculated that her embezzlement of close to half a million dollars in B&B funds had been the work of a very intelligent woman and that her escape to the unknown had been part of the plan all along. The last article mentioning her name appeared in 1988 and detailed the reemergence of James Beadford in Houston as an oil company supplier of stainless steel—the newly created Beadford Oil Suppliers. The headline read, “Businessman Bounces Back After Employee Runs Off with Everything.” According to the piece written three years after Montgomery left Dallas, no trace of her had yet been found.

  But I still couldn’t be positive Montgomery and Donnelly were the same person since photographs were not archived on the site. Surely pictures existed. And there had to be a mug shot of Montgomery, too. Angel mentioned some friends in Dallas who might help and I called him, leaving a message when he didn’t answer his cell phone or his office number.

  Now what?

  And then I remembered the phone call from Graham Beadford and that got me to thinking. Laura Montgomery worked for B&B, so Graham would have known her. Was that why he called me? Because he’d recognized her at the reception? So why wait until now to tell me? And why call me rather than Fielder? Those questions needed answering pronto.

  Since I had no idea when Angel would get back to me on the pictures of Montgomery, I decided to call Graham and set up the meeting he’d requested. He didn’t answer in his hotel room, and I got no response at the Beadford house, either—and that was probably a lucky break. If Roxanne answered, she’d surely ask what I wanted with him. Nobody was home anywhere, probably because James Beadford’s funeral had been scheduled by now. Perhaps everyone was at the visitation. The obit would have provided those hours.

  But before I could log on to the Galveston County Daily News, my stomach cramped so bad I doubled over. And then I was racing to the bathroom all the while reminding myself to never eat an entire jar of salsa in one sitting again.

  An hour later, with half a bottle of Pepto swimming in my stomach, I entered the Forest Rest Funeral Home located off the interstate on the way to Galveston. The visitation was tonight and tomorrow as I’d guessed.

  Nothing like the faint odor of embalming fluid mixed with the scent of lilies to up your nausea level. But maybe it was the hushed organ music that made me feel sick all over again. I hate organ music almost as much as I hate rap.

  A woman dressed in a navy suit and wearing white gloves stood guard in the dimly lit lobby. Those gloves struck me as weird and creepy, like something out of that movie Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? Not that I recall any gloves on Bette or Joan, but I got the same feeling from this woman as I had from sitting through that flick.

  “Welcome to Forest Rest,” she said. “Are you here to pay your respects?”

  No, I’m here with my mariachi band to liven things up, I thought. But I politely said, “The Beadford visitation?”

  “Ah yes. This way.”

  I followed her down a wide corridor and couldn’t help but notice they were doing a damn fine business at Forest Rest. Caskets and mourners in every room. But the Beadfords’ spot was far more crowded than the others I’d seen. An album-sized book sat on a table outside the entrance.

  “Please sign before you go in,” she said, before she slipped away.

  Sign-in books had brought me to this point, I thought, adding my signature to the page. Glad I wasn’t in charge of this one. Not here, thank you very much.

  I scanned the room from the doorway looking for Graham, but my gaze was drawn to a stone-faced Megan in one corner. She was clinging to Travis and nodding at a steady parade of people offering their condolences. Probably the same people who had been celebrating her wedding not long ago.

  Sylvia stood nearby, looking sad but composed and wearing a different black dress than the one she’d had on the other day. Her beauty-shop hair made her about six inches taller.

  I’d thrown on a wrinkled brown linen dress from my suitcase—everything else the least bit funereal needed laundering—and since the temperature in this room had to be colder than the sixty degrees outside, goose bumps as big as hills rose on my arms. I started in Megan’s direction, but then Roxanne attacked from my flank.

  She grabbed my sleeve and said, “Thank God you’re here. You have to stop her.” She pulled me by the elbow in the direction I’d just come from and I saw why. Courtney was on her way out.

  Not wanting to cause a ruckus in this somber venue, I went along with Roxanne, whispering, “Why do I need to stop her?” I was hoping my quiet tone would offer her a clue as to the negative impact of acting like a crazy woman in a funeral home.

  No such luck. Roxanne spoke loud enough for God and everybody to hear, saying, “She announced this is the most boring place she’s ever been and that she ‘wants some action.’ You understand her intent, don’t you?”

  I was afraid I did, but though I wanted to tell Roxanne I was not a shrink or a drug counselor or a preacher, this girl was so determined to involve me in the family’s private business I knew she wouldn’t care how much I protested. I could vomit on Roxanne to get her to leave me alone, but since I’d already puked my guts out once tonight, there probably wasn’t enough left in me to make an impression.

  So I went with her, and we caught up with Courtney in the lobby where the white-gloved woman was just opening one of the huge double doors to let her out.

  “Hey, Courtney!” I called. “Could I talk to you for a minute before you go?”

  “I’m out of here,” she yelled over her shoulder and left.

  Roxanne gave me a shove in the middle of my back. “You cannot allow h
er to destroy her life.”

  The greeter raised her eyebrows expectantly and looked at me as if to say, “Yes, do something.”

  Why was I such a sucker for the needs of the wackos of the world? I had no good answer as I hurried after Courtney, Roxanne on my heels.

  Courtney was hoofing it through the parking lot and I shouted, “I only want a minute of your time; then you can split.”

  “Don’t tell her that. You’ll be enabling her,” Roxanne said.

  Living with you is probably more enabling than anything I could ever do, I wanted to say. But since Courtney had halted, I hurried over to her rather than respond to Roxanne.

  Courtney’s outfit, a blue jeans skirt and a baggy sweater, had me looking like I might get nominated for “Best Funeral Attire of the Year.”

  Lips pursed, one hand on her hip, Courtney said, “What do you want?”

  I tried for a sincere smile. “Must be a tough night cooped up with a bunch of strangers and a dead man.”

  “What do you know about it?” When she swiped at her bangs—her hair was streaked with what looked like red and green food coloring since I’d last seen her—I noted that her hand was trembling. I didn’t think it was from the cool evening air.

  “My daddy died last year,” I said, “and this was the part I hated the most. Shaking hands with people I hardly knew when all I wanted to do was get away from everyone. Even the word visitation makes me kind of sick.”

  “Yeah. You don’t look so hot. So why don’t you go home and take care of your own self?”

  “Hey, if you want to get wasted I can’t stop you,” I answered.

  “Shrink your own head, lady.” She pulled a cigarette from her small shoulder bag and put it between her lips, then smirked at Roxanne, who had joined us. “Got a light, sis?”

  “What demons possess you?” Roxanne said. “What—”

  “Cut the drama,” Courtney said to her sister. “And Abby should get on down the road because she couldn’t care less about anything but her own agenda.”

  “Nothing says an agenda can’t involve others,” I said quietly.

  “The others being my cousin Megan?” she said.

  “Why do you have to alienate everyone, Courtney? Abby has offered to help you,” Roxanne said.

  I offered? Must have missed that part of the conversation.

  Roxanne continued with her lecture. “Dad will be very disconcerted if he discovers you vacated the funeral home without offering Aunt Sylvia an explanation. And he will consider that a perfect excuse to continue this latest binge. I understand your behavior has been triggered by the horrendous events at the wedding. But if you keep on this path and upset Dad, we’ll be forced to contact those zealots in his AA group and—”

  Courtney gave a short sarcastic laugh. “What in hell makes you think his plunge into another vat of whiskey would be triggered by anything but pure selfish need? Have you seen him offer one bit of support to anyone? Have you seen him show his face even for one second tonight?”

  “I know you are not as malicious as you sound,” Roxanne said, blinking back tears. She turned to me. “She really isn’t like this all the time. It’s the drugs talking.”

  Courtney made a disgusted face and said, “No, it’s me talking.”

  “Um, I came here to speak to Graham,” I cut in. “Did you say he isn’t here?”

  “Good listener,” Courtney said, rummaging in her purse. “Glad someone’s paying attention. Where are the fucking matches when you need one?”

  “Do you know where I could find him?” I asked. “He called me and—”

  “Check the resort bar. And if he’s not there, try the other watering holes in that cutesy little town, all two of them.” Courtney found the matches and lit her cigarette with shaky hands, then blew smoke in her sister’s face.

  Roxanne went into a fit of coughing so obviously fake I almost laughed.

  Courtney, though rude and tense from what was most likely the beginning of withdrawal, didn’t seem to need any intervention from me.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll head to the hotel and find him.”

  Roxanne’s forced coughing abruptly ceased. “But you mustn’t leave. You have to assist her.”

  “She has to help herself,” I said.

  I turned and walked to my car, leaving a distraught Roxanne still sputtering at her sister.

  The drive to the resort and conference center on the bay took about fifteen minutes. On the way, I considered all the questions swirling in my head. Did Graham know why Sylvia and James adopted Megan? Was that the information he hoped to sell me? If so, I might just be willing to pay him for the truth.

  Once I entered the lobby, I followed the signs to the bar. A curved wall of windows overlooked the water and hundreds of lights glittered on the dock and marina. But though the lady bartender knew Graham by name and said he’d been in earlier, she told me he left at least an hour ago. I made my way to the elevator and rode up to the twelfth floor to look for 1234, the room number he’d mentioned in his call to me while I was in Jamaica.

  The long hallway was deserted and so quiet I swore I could have heard someone drop their pajamas behind one of the dozens of doors lining the corridor. The hall eased right as I closed in on Graham’s room. Since his was next to the vending machines, I picked up on the hums of the refrigerated soda machine and the ice maker.

  And then I heard a voice coming from behind Graham’s door, shouting, “No! God, no!”

  I ran the last few feet to his room just in time to hear an awful, strangled scream. I pounded on the door with my fist. “Graham! Are you okay?”

  I gripped the door lever out of pure instinct even though I knew hotel doors were always locked. But right after my fingers wrapped around the handle, the door opened violently. I was yanked forward.

  And then just as ferociously that door came flying back at me, the edge hitting my left cheek with the force of a baseball bat. I fell to the floor, white light shattering my vision. I made a futile grab for a blacktrousered leg as someone stepped over me, but I was too stunned by the blow to even think or move. I blinked hard and looked into the room, trying to focus. The blue sheer liner drapes that covered the glass doors to a balcony blew toward me in the ocean breeze.

  Then numbness and confusion gave way to unbelievable pain. I tried to get up, knowing I needed help. Mistake. The room went all cockeyed, then bile and the awful taste of Pepto rose in my throat. I could only slump against the wall and close my eyes.

  14

  “Señorita? You okay?” a woman asked.

  I opened my eyes and saw a blurry brown face close to mine. Pretty face. “I’ll be fine, but what’s that noise? Because it’s damn annoying.”

  “Sirens outside. You don’t look so good. Your husband hit you and leave you here like this?”

  “Husband? Last time I checked, I didn’t have one of those. Listen, would you mind helping me up?”

  She was squatting in front of me, and I saw she was wearing a gray cotton maid’s uniform. She took my upper arm, and with her support, I stood. I had to lean against the wall once I was upright since I felt dizzy and as sick as ever. And my face. Yikes, could anything hurt more than this?

  “I could use some air,” I said.

  She helped me across the room, saying, “I gotta call my manager. You need a doctor.”

  Those sirens, a persistent whine before, were now much louder and when we got out on the balcony, I understood why.

  A man was lying below on the well-lit stone walkway, his body surrounded by a small crowd. One leg was bent at a sickening angle and blood was pooled around his head. A rescue truck came speeding up, and two paramedics jumped out and pushed the gawkers aside so they could get to the man. Being this far up I couldn’t tell if it was Graham, but I remembered the anguished shout I’d heard right before I got smacked in the face. I had definitely recognized his voice.

  “Oh no,” I whispered.

  “You and the man have
some trouble?” the woman said.

  I didn’t answer her. I was watching a police car arrive. It lurched to a halt, lights flashing so brilliantly in the dark I had to squint. Two cops got out simultaneously. A second later, a woman in the crowd was standing next to the policeman and pointing up to our balcony. Pointing at us.

  It had taken the cops only about three minutes to reach Graham’s room. By that time, I was sitting on the floor in the hallway with an ice bag pressed to my face, thanks to Maria—the woman who had come to my aid. One cop asked me my name while the other went into Graham’s empty room. He asked if I needed a paramedic and I told him no, I was fine. Then he said, “You and the jumper have a fight?”

  “Are you crazy?” I said.

  That didn’t go over too well.

  “Why don’t you think about what happened and we’ll talk in a minute,” he replied sternly. He stood outside Graham’s room, his hand on the billy club hanging from his waist, his posture saying he’d give me a swat on the other side of my face if I made any more references to his mental health.

  The responding officers were from the county, but since this was Seacliff, I figured my favorite chief of police would be here soon. So when he asked me again what happened, I told him I’d prefer to wait and talk to Fielder.

  Sure enough, she came up to the twelfth floor several minutes later. She had Maria open one of the unoccupied rooms, and I stayed there while Fielder talked to the maid.

  I sat in a gold velvet armchair by the window, my ice pack dripping down my arm, my face was blessedly numb now. Fielder entered a few minutes later, shutting the door after her. Her red blouse and straight, short black skirt complemented her thin, long-legged figure.

  She sat across from me, the standard hotel issue round table between us. From her expression, I guessed she was plenty pissed off. “What the hell happened in that room, Miss Rose?”

  “I have no idea,” I said.

  “Oh? So you’ve got amnesia?” she said. “Because Graham Beadford is dead, and I need you to recover your memory damn quick.”